


Wicked Graceless

by beautifultoastdream



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward dude conversation, Card Games, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Humor, Male Bonding, Not Trespasser-compliant, Varric meddles, Wicked Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:58:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7569760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifultoastdream/pseuds/beautifultoastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the Commander of the Inquisition, the King of Ferelden, and a mercenary ex-slave with an attitude problem walk into a bar … Varric looked at the ceiling too and considered that for a moment. A good setup, but he had no idea how the joke could end. (Andraste, he only hoped it didn’t involve aristocrats.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Graceless

**Author's Note:**

> A giftfic originally written for my friend Systlin, this was part of my attempt to answer a pressing question: what would happen if King Alistair, Fenris, and Commander Cullen played cards, with Varric acting as dealer? More importantly, what would they talk about, and what circumstances could possibly lead to such an occurrence? Humor. Possibility of continuation, but for now, I think it functions as a standalone. Enjoy!

Varric Tethras looked around the room and sighed. For a group of legendary warriors, this was the dullest bunch he’d ever had the misfortune to be stuck with.

Of course, no one could blame them for being a bit morose. The last time there’d been a big gathering of important leader types, a would-be god had blown the joint up. Eliminating Corypheus (again) had, in theory, prevented the possibility of a sequel, but even so this particular little meeting had been arranged strictly on the quiet. No lines of Templars or mages marching up the mountains in full regalia: just a handful of powerful people sneaking quietly into Skyhold with their bare-bones retinues well under wraps.

Varric had decided to spend _Conclave II: Revenge of the Diplomacy_ holed up in the Herald’s Rest, where he had been virtually positive he could avoid anybody with a crown or a title. (Not that he was prejudiced. Some of his best friends were blue-bloods. But really, that masked ball had left some lingering scars.) Much of the Inquisition’s forces had been stood down as a show of good faith, which meant that the usual drunks, Chargers, and drunk Chargers had cleared out. It should have been just him and Bianca, and he’d been looking forward to a quiet evening with a few pints and his toolkit. Bianca needed a bit of tuning up.

Unfortunately, he’d reckoned without how much the diplomats and blue-bloods might need a drink too.

There were three other people besides Cabot the barkeeper, and not a one of them was making eye contact with anyone else. The first day of talks apparently hadn’t gone well. Which meant that not only did Varric have unwelcome company, but the company was sulking.

The most active was also one of the most familiar: Commander Cullen Rutherford, looking unusually frustrated as he paced back and forth between a couple of tables. His hands were buried in his mantle and he looked about ready to bite someone. Somehow, a day of polite conversation and treaty discussion had left him looking rougher than the battle at Adamant.

Though at Adamant, he’d had access to trebuchets. Now he just looked like he wanted them. Badly.

Second, and even more familiar—although not of late—was the white-haired shadow leaning against the wall where Krem usually sat. Fenris: still looking the same and still glowing like a cave mushroom. They’d been friends back in Kirkwall, as much as Fenris could be friends with anyone, but after receiving Varric’s letter about Hawke falling into the Fade relations had cooled somewhat.

(Or at least, he’d mailed Varric a Tevinter head. Possibly as a sign of displeasure, or possibly because he had one lying around. He usually did.)

In addition to being the only elf in the room, Fenris also had the distinction of being the only one not actually invited to the summit. Not that that stopped him. When a guy can walk through walls, what’re you going to do? Hawke _had_ been invited, and the last time Hawke had been called to Skyhold, she fell into the Fade. She had only escaped after Fenris ransacked Thedas for mages, conscripted Feynriel the somniari, and essentially shouted the Inquisitor into widening an existing rift in the Veil, none of which had pleased Hawke much. (“Remember when I said I _didn’t_ want you to risk your life for me? Is any of this ringing a bell?”) Once they reconciled, though, there was no power in Thedas that would keep the elf from following her this time.

Thirdly was the one Varric had never met before, who also happened to be the one with the most actual power. Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden and hero of the Fifth Blight, was lounging back in a chair and staring at the ceiling with a distant expression on his face. His clothes were as good as a king’s ought to be (Varric still had the Tethras merchant blood, and he knew quality tailoring when he saw it), but overall he was lacking in the usual kingly symbols like a signet ring, a gold chain, maybe a crown, and so on. Hopefully he was lacking them because he’d chosen not to wear them, and not because they’d somehow wandered into Sera’s pockets.

Truthfully, Varric had trouble getting a read on the king of Ferelden. His letters to the Inquisition had read like something penned by someone’s good-natured idiot brother, but anyone that dumb wouldn’t have survived the Blight, let alone ten years as king of the nation that produced Hawke _and_ Cullen. Either his closest advisor (read: his wife) was some kind of conniving mastermind puppeteer, or Alistair knew how to play the game.

So the Commander of the Inquisition, the King of Ferelden, and a mercenary ex-slave with an attitude problem walk into a bar … Varric looked at the ceiling too and considered that for a moment. A good setup, but he had no idea how the joke could end. (Andraste’s ass, he only hoped it didn’t involve aristocrats.)

Between the pacing, the glowering, and the staring, though, it was obvious to him that all three men had ended up in the bar for some reason other than getting drunk. Alistair was on his first tankard of really awful ale, and there was a half-empty bottle of Chasind mead sitting on the table in front of Fenris, but neither of them seemed interested in really properly drowning their sorrows. Varric was no mindreader, but he was prepared to bet that they were all just plain depressed.

And he was definitely no diplomat, but he knew that depressed power players tended not to make things happy for the little people. Or, for that matter, the merely short.

“Well,” he said aloud. “This is the saddest bunch of long-faced sons of bitches I’ve ever seen in here. What’s Cabot putting in the ale these days?”

All three men jumped a little, but it was King Alistair who cleared his throat and sat up. “That’s a good question,” he said, peering into his tankard. “I mean, it’s not bad, just … odd. D'you suppose there’s something different in the water here? The Inquisition’s done some good work with those mineral survey reports—wasn’t there ever one done around Skyhold?”

Varric grinned. It figured that the only one to respond would be the one he didn’t know. And a damned king, too. “Y'know, _that’s_ a good question. Hey, Commander! Why’s the water taste weird here? Are we all drinking powdered granite or something?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. He was probably wondering why Varric had addressed him by his formal title, especially since after a day of being called Commander, he’d likely been braced for the unceremonious return of Curly. (Or, on occasions when Varric really wanted to prod him, the Skyhold Streaker.) Still, it was a direct question that didn’t involve diplomacy, so Cullen actually gave it fair consideration.

“The water was tested by our best mages and alchemists when the base was established. A lot of it is snowmelt, about as pure as you can get in this part of the world. It’s what you’re not tasting that’s confusing you.” Maker be praised, the frown disappeared for a moment. “And I haven’t been to Denerim in years, your majesty, but if the sewers there are as bad as I remember …”

“Actually, they’re in good shape now. One advantage of having a lot of streets leveled by a rampaging demon army is your people can get right down to the pipes afterwards. But you may be right.” The king took another sip of ale. “Takes some getting used to.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cullen said blandly. “The rest of the men usually drink it all first.”

“Well, then, this is your opportunity, isn’t it?” Varric said. “C'mon, Cur—Commander, have a seat and get yourself a drink. You’re wearing a hole in the floor. Even Grumpy over there knows how to put his feet up sometimes.”

“Leave me out of this.” That was Fenris, blunt as usual. King Alistair twisted in his seat a little to look at the elf.

“You’re the Champion’s bodyguard, aren’t you? Glad to see no one threw you out.” Alistair raised his mug to Fenris, who looked slightly startled. “Good man! Don’t let this lot ever think you’ll back down. They’ll eat you alive.”

“Good advice,” Varric said. “But don’t you think that’s just a tiny bit hypocritical? I mean, you’re one of the guests of honor.”

“Yes, but I know better than to annoy mysterious elves with edged weapons.”

“Meet a lot of those, do you?”

Alistair grinned. “More than a few. We worked with the Dalish clans during the Blight, you know, and one of our merry little band on the road was an Antivan elf. Not the best assassin you ever met, but if you wanted edged weapons, he was your man.”

At that, Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Antivan elf assassin … He wasn’t blond by any chance?”

“Sort of, yeah. Name of Zevran. Met him when he was hired to assassinate us.” Alistair cocked his head, noting Fenris’s expression. “Friend of yours?”

“No.” Fenris retreated into his mead. Varric, though, barked out a laugh.

“Zevran! Hah, I remember him! Some Crows tried to hire Hawke to hunt him down, and it didn’t end too well for them. He came back to help us out when Meredith was losing it, too.” He grinned, too, at the recollection. “I definitely wouldn’t say he and Grumpy were pals. That elf was seriously putting the moves on Hawke, even while she was covered with spider guts.”

“Shut up, dwarf.”

“Zevran flirting with someone at the worst possible time? Who could have imagined!” Alistair chuckled. “My wife broke four of his ribs with her shield, and he was still trying to get her into bed. It used to annoy me, but really, you get used to it after a while. It’s like how a dog is very useful if you don’t mind the smell and the drooling.”

“He must be damned useful, then,” Fenris said sourly.

Oh-kay, touched a nerve there. Could Fenris see Zevran as actual competition? No, unlikely, given the way Hawke lit up when she was with her favorite broody bastard … Or, perhaps, as more of a road not traveled? Zevran, too, had once been a slave of sorts, but he laughed at the situation and spent his time merrily dismantling his former masters’ network of operatives. He was also charming, which no power in Thedas could do for Fenris. In short, Zevran was better-adjusted, and anybody who’d known them both could see it. Better change the subject.

“Probably more useful than this lot, anyway.” Varric gestured vaguely towards the door, and the main keep housing most of the nobles and their hangers-on. “I’ve never seen so many stiff necks and clenched assholes in my life. Probably win a couple kingdoms’ worth of jewels if I could stand to play Wicked Grace with them for five minutes.”

“Why don’t you?” the king suggested idly. He rose and moved to the bar, where Cabot topped up his mug with something suspiciously murky and foamy. Varric wouldn’t have drunk it for all the gold in the Free Marches, and he had been an habitual of the Hanged Man’s swill kegs for years. Evidently Cabot, gauging his customer’s expressed preferences, had decided to switch His Majesty to a brew made with less-offensively-pure water. “Play Wicked Grace with them, I mean. It might lighten some of them up. I know it’s been years since I’ve had a good game.”

“You play Wicked Grace?” Varric asked, laughing. “What am I saying, of course you do! I hear those Weisshaupt parties are legendary.”

“I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic or not, so I’m just going to pretend you weren’t and say, yes, Grey Wardens do play Wicked Grace. And throw some rather excellent parties, when given the opportunity.” Alistair slurped the foam off his ale. “After all, when your career starts with ‘Here, drink this blood, it’ll only poison you slowly’ and ends with 'Here, take this sword and go poke that Archdemon to death, at least this way you’ll get killed by a big dragon instead of darkspawn number five thousand and seventeen in a nug-infested tunnel under Orzammar,’ you get pretty good at drowning your sorrows. Or at least taking your mind off them. We used to play a lot of it on the road during the Blight, too, especially after our esteemed leader picked up the game from that Isabela woman.”

“Isabela?” Varric’s grin widened. “Tall human? Allergic to pants? Calls herself a captain?”

“Isabela?” Cullen frowned. “That pirate who used to follow Hawke around back in Kirkwall?”

“Isabela?” Fenris cocked his head. “Didn’t the Qunari finally get her?”

Alistair looked startled. “Er … Isabela, yes. We met her at a … erm … well, at a brothel. She fought a couple of men, showed Jehanne a few sword passes, and propositioned all of us. She seems to get around.”

“Oh, definitely,” said Varric. “I’m surprised she didn’t wash up with the Inquisition, actually.”

A soft snort from Fenris. “Maybe you didn’t have enough big … boats.”

Varric laughed again, secretly relieved. If Grumpy could crack something that even smelled a little like a joke, then there was hope for this uninspiring bunch yet. In fact, this was giving Varric an idea.

“Probably a good thing we don’t have her,” he said, dipping a hand into his pocket. “'Cause she’d clean us all out in a heartbeat. I, on the other hand, am a fair and impartial kind of player.” He withdrew his hand, revealing a battered paper pack of cards. “How about it, gentlemen? Care for a hand or two?”

Cullen leaned back just a little. “No. Never again.”

Alistair, on the other hand, visibly perked up. “Absolutely! It’s been ages.” He threw a sideways glance at Cullen, brows furrowing. “Not a fan of card games, commander? Templars haven’t banned them since I was a recruit, have they?”

“I don’t know if the Templars have or not,” Cullen said a little tersely. “But playing card games with Inquisition members isn’t advisable. Cheating is rampant.”

“The way I see it, it’s not cheating if everyone is doing it,” Alistair replied with perfect good humor. “Some of our games during the Blight … Well, between the dwarf spitting on your shoes when he lost, the golem walking around the circle commenting on everyone’s hand, and the future Hero of Ferelden concealing five aces and eight face cards, I don’t think I’d know what to do if everyone was actually playing straight.”

“Which is good, because Herald’s Rest house rules will be in force.” Varric turned. “How about it, Grumpy?”

“No,” Fenris said. “I have more important things to worry about than entertaining you.”

“What’s the matter?” Varric flicked casually through the deck, making the stiff cards snap against each other. “Hoping I won’t remember those five sovs you still owe me?”

The creepy green eyes narrowed, but to Varric’s enormous relief, narrowed too much. Fenris’s expressions were usually guarded but unfeigned: when he made a pointed show of displeasure, he was actually fucking with you. In a quiet, sullen, Fenris-y sort of way, true, but fucking with you nonetheless. Thank the Maker for that.

“If you’re so desperate for the money,” Fenris said slowly, “then perhaps I should make an effort to shut your mouth, dwarf.” He glanced at Alistair. “You. Kings have money. I’m going to win five sovereigns from you.”

Alistair cracked his knuckles. “You’re on.”

“And then I’m going to make Varric eat them.”

“Now that,” Cullen said from the other side of the table, “is something I’m willing to play for. Deal me in, Varric.”


End file.
